


He used to be beautiful.

by Octavia_Skylar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bittersweet, Cuddling, Dark Elves, Devotion, Healthy Relationships, I wish there were more works for these two, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mild Sexual Content, Prequel, Rare Character, Rare Pair, Romance, Sad, Short Story, Sort of happy ending, Sweet, Thor the Dark World - Freeform, cute gay couple, healthy gay couple, hopeful, romantic, soft, somber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 08:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octavia_Skylar/pseuds/Octavia_Skylar
Summary: He used to be beautiful.  Before everything that happened he was a glorious sight, his eyes glistened with a vast intelligence that seemed to consume the whole of your world. His body was healthy and strong and when I lay my head upon his breast I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of his heart, a faithful metronome to guide us through the centuries we shared…That’s gone now.





	He used to be beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Rated teen for mild sexual content.

He used to be beautiful

He used to be beautiful.  Before everything that happened he was a glorious sight, his eyes glistened with a vast intelligence that seemed to consume the whole of your world. His body was healthy and strong and when I lay my head upon his breast I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of his heart, a faithful metronome to guide us through the centuries we shared…

That’s gone now. His hair falls around him, dry and stiff like straw, from all the times he washed the blood and muck from the strands. His fingernails are cracked and shriveled like raisins. His bones are as brittle as stale chocolate and his back… his back is red and his spine swollen. Ribbons of pus rear themselves up from inside till they become roads on a twisted map. He is no longer merely thin but gaunt, his skin stretched around his visible skeleton, ribs easily counted behind the pale translucent skin that holds him together.

He used to be beautiful. Before everything that happened his arms would sway at his side like pendulums, content to be anchored but joyous in movement. His throat would hum with the soft notes of songs long forgotten by anyone but him. His lips would move upwards revealing the soft pearl white teeth in a smile that could flatter a god. His chest would rise and fall, the blood would flow calmly through one vain to the next, like a creek echoed by the birdsong of his breathing. When we lay together his back would arch upward bringing his stomach close to mine and the rest would tremble, his voice unbridled as his body unlocked beneath me.

It’s different now. He does not sway or lean in public eye. He is silent most hours and when his voice does grace my ears it reaches them dead, like a swamp with no plants. In the public eye he holds himself as rigid as a stone effigy. His face is an iron mask to hide the glass skull that is all that protects him….

They do not see him as I do. They do not notice how much of himself has been lost to this war… He used to be beautiful. He’s even worse now. Unconscious, surrounded by nurses washing the filth from his skin, I didn’t see what happened but by the looks of it I’m lucky... I just hope he doesn’t remember any of it either.

We first met in a library. There’s a shelf of books between us. Had I actually seen who I was talking to I’d have never gone over there. Never spoken to him like I am, like I know better, like I’m right and he’s wrong because everything I’d read said he’s wrong. When he tells me his name I don’t believe him. Then he pulls out a few books from the shelf to rest his arms and head in the empty space and I see the face I’ve seen for years in history books. The same face I’ve seen in the news. The face that has always been unreachable, is now silently chuckling at me as I try to apologize for disagreeing with him…

He wasn’t at all what I had envisioned. His body is thin under the clothes, too thin. The ulcers in his stomach rebel against anything that comes to join them, just about everything is wretched up with the hour. He’s been like this as long as he can remember and at this point it’s more frustrating than anything else. That he does everything he should, sleeps as long as he ought to, eats regular and wholesome meals, works and rests as every paper and doctor says, and yet he still ends up hacking up anything thicker than a light soup because the stress won’t leave. Like his mind can’t stop running a thousand miles an hour and his body just gave up the fight.

Part of me finds it attractive if I’m being honest. In a world where so many have given up watching someone care so much they work themselves sick is rather hopeful. I wonder if it’s wrong of me to want this from him. To enjoy those moments when he grits his teeth and takes the abuse that leaves him crying on the edge of a panic attack the moment we’re behind closed doors. I don’t think I should look forward to the end of the week meetings that enrage him, and send him into my arms desperate for validation.

I remember the first time we were intimate. The first blows of the war had been struck only we hadn’t known it at the time. A boarder skirmish we called it. Just something that happens every now and then, nothing to be concerned about. We had won, we held our ground, and he lost so much blood that he still wasn’t warm underneath three comforters and a robe with a heat enchantment. At first I was just trying to ease his pain, using my body to warm him, and kissing his forehead as if it could cure his concussion. Then he curls into me. My hands stroke his hair, still soft and silky, as I feel him kiss my jaw and wrap his arms around my neck.

“You can do whatever you want… there’s not much I wouldn’t like.” I’m surprised and he almost needs to tell me again. When I realize he’s serious it only takes a moment before he gasps and starts trembling as my tongue flicks at the soft spot between his legs. Then his knees are digging into the bed next to his head, he’s weak and completely content to be that way. Letting someone else be in charge for once. It was slow and gentle that fist time, I was wary not to aggravate his wounds or tear the bandages. He fell asleep almost immediately, smiling softly as I pulled my hair out of his mouth.

He’s only ever truly himself in those moments. Completely relaxed he’s free from himself and the seasons of my life have become marked by our nights together. The nights when it’s soft and we take our time, just enjoying ourselves. The nights where he’s blindfolded, I’m holding him in place, his hands behind his back as he tries and fails to push closer to me. The nights when where we’re hardly moving, just tiny thrusts as his arms and legs lock around me not letting my face lose contact with his, desperately trying to remind ourselves that life is still worth living… There’s been too many of those nights.

As he lays here in my arms I know we’ll have another of those nights when wakes up. He’s clean and bandaged, his body smelling of foul ointments and medicine. He’s asleep but he’s not calm. His face is twisted like he’s having a nightmare but he rarely dreams. His body shivers violently under the covers, in my arms, as if his body is only just now realizing that being left half naked in the snow would make you pretty cold. I move my thumb up and gently stroke his temple. He used to be beautiful but now… he’s lost so much of himself.


End file.
